Jewish Dream

I had my first Jewish Dream last night. I don't even know that I've ever dreamt about being in church, that I can remember. But I definitely dreamt about going to Jewish services last night. Or this morning, just before I woke up. In fact, coming out of the dream, I wasn't tired, but I wanted to go back to sleep, because somebody I knew was about to make an announcement, and I wanted to hear what he had to say.

But that wasn't the interesting part of the dream. The interesting part was where I was sitting in the folding chairs, between two old friends from college, who were Jewish, or at least I believe so, or they were in my dream. And there was kind of a rug area in front of us where some people were sitting to watch the goings-on. It was a fairly big space. It was like a cross between Chochmat and a Conservative synagogue. It had that comfy, homey, low-key, rugged floor aspect of Chochmat, but the "stage" area at the front was bigger, and all the chairs were facing forward. So I guess it was a little bit like church.

In fact, that was part of the dream. I am wondering if there is a Freudian term for a dream in which you express your personal opinion? I mean, there's wish fulfillment, sex, fears. But what about ideas, beliefs, opinions? Can that happen in a dream? Because I think it happened in mine.

And here's where technology enters the picture. I seem to have had a multimedia dream, where at the bottom of the "screen" (my field of vision), there were various things - items, applications, doodads - you could rollover and do things with. I am not sure how the "rolling over" was happening. It was kind of like mentally "rolling over" more than anything else. Just bringing my attention to that thing. And I don't remember what most of those items were, but I kept my attention for a long time on this one image that popped up. It was a picture of the Pope, wearing white, and kind of a Monty-Python-esque animation, where his jaw would move and he would nosh on the edge of a big, round, sacramental wafer. A wafer such as most Christian and Catholic children who grow up in a church with such things fear for dear life, because of their exceedingly dull and crispy flavor. Me, for my part, I always liked them, for some reason. When my mom had to do work in the sacristy, I would always steal the broken ones. And she would let me. It was probably like some kind of big sacrilege. I bet we're both going to Hell. But it was fun. It was more fun than church. I looked forward to that more than snack time at recess.

But anyway, back to my dream. So we had the Pope down there, noshing on his big wafer. And when you rolled over him, he became - a Rabbi! His image would be replaced by a similar picture of a Rabbi, with a big grey beard and side curls, and HE would be munching on a big piece of Matzah, the exact same size and shape of the wafer! It was so exciting, that I "rolled over" it several times in my mind, just to really make sure I was seeing what I was seeing. Because I thought, this is perfect. There is something to this, because of course (and I didn't automatically think this at the time, but I knew it already), the "Last Supper" was a Passover Seder, and that's where they get the wafer idea from. And when Jesus was doing the whole "body and the blood" business, what he was really doing was making a Kiddush over wine and bread, and he said, "Whenever you do this..." But when he said that, what he meant by "do this" was, really, say a Kiddush. Because he was talking to Jews. But Christians don't say a Kiddush. Well, I guess they do, sort of, in a way, but it's certainly not a Jewish Kiddush, such as el Jésus would have made. And they sort of do it in "remembrance" of him, but it's really more like, I would say, in some sort of bizarre obsession with him, based on my experience.

But the point of the dream is this: Pope, Priest, Rabbi. Same basic idea. Different external stuff. Different external ideas. But it comes from the same place. And the bread and the wine is still bread and wine.

What was always my favorite part of a church service? Communion. That's where people come together to share this common food. I don't care if it's the body of Jesus or anybody. I care if it's people experiencing communion together and becoming one instead of a disparate group of individuals. That's what's meaningful to me. And that's what I find so much more in Judaism, even though it is certainly present in Christianity. And I just think Christianity could embrace Judaism a lot more than it does. That's why I'm doing it. But I don't need the Christianity in order to do that. But I do feel it's given me a little bit of pre-Jewish knowledge, even though I don't yet know Hebrew.

There is a whole movement to kind of bring Jewish and Christian leaders together and find common interests between the two faiths, which, really, as far as I am concerned, is pretty much the same faith. It's just that Christianity has this extra Thing attached to it, which conflicts with my own personal reading of the Torah, but I also have to come back to my other personal (Jewish) view, which is, if it works for them, great. Who am I to talk them out of it? We can all exist peacefully. Because what I see is more in common than that which differentiates.

Conversation

Some companies have normal water cooler conversations. We, apparently, talk about circumcision.

So I thought, how fantastic. This is not one, but two conversations about circumcision that I have experienced in less than a week. There was the one last Saturday with the guy who works in AIDS research, but that was in a Jewish context. Here, this was totally random.

And through that conversation (I am not really sure how this happened), but the subject of Jesus came up. The guy sitting next to me, who was not a young guy, piped, "But Jesus wouldn't have been circumcised, because he wasn't Jewish." That's when I corrected him. He was aghast. Jesus was Jewish? No. Really? He looked at me like he had just discovered that doors open through walls. But the other ladies backed me up. "Yeah, like you know where it says 'King of the Jews'?" Really? He said, putting his hand on his head. He still looked incredulous. Obviously this was a first time for him.

There are some things that I think everybody knows, because it's been beaten into my head so many times that I can hardly stand to hear it anymore. But I am always amazed. What I take for granted as common knowledge sometimes maybe just isn't. But it makes sense. Why would Catholicism or Christianity want its members to know that Jesus was Jewish? As far as they are concerned, he was the first "Christian," though educated Christian people know better. Christianity cuts everything off at that point, and says, ok, that was then, this is now. We're Christian, and that's all that matters.

And I think Christians are afraid. Of course they are afraid. Because Christianity knows, if it ever let people know what other religions were really like, nobody would stick around. And plenty of people don't. Being a Christian doesn't make anybody a bad person, necessarily. But my props to those who can cut through all the mess, and get down to the reality of life. That's why I'm here. But that's why I am becoming Jewish.

"Our worst fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'who am I to be so brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?' Actually, who are we not to be? You are a child of God: Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us. It is not just in some of us, it is in everyone and as we let our own light shine we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others."

~Marianne Williamson

Bagels and Lox

Why do I have this massive urge to eat lox...?

Shabbat Shalom

Now I get Shabbat Shalom.

I've gotten it all my life, I just didn't know what it was. And I only got it once a year: on Christmas.

And when I'm talking about Christmas, I am not talking about the Birth of Christ. Because, really, how important is that to a six-year-old? They might parrot the rhetoric from Sunday School, which I know because I taught Sunday School, but that's not what they really care about. I mean, seriously. What does a little kid care about? Presents. Chocolate. Candy. Little toys in their stocking. Big pancakes for breakfast. It's all about the massive pile of presents under the tree.

And what is the point of those presents? Let's think about it. Some guy with a beard comes around and gives you lots of stuff that isn't just random - it's stuff that you want. And sometimes you know you want it, sometimes you don't. And it doesn't matter if Santa is real to you, or if you believe it's just your parents. In either case, it's someone giving you lots and lots of presents, for no other reason besides the fact that you are alive. You did nothing to deserve those presents. Even if you did something "bad," you're not getting coal in your stocking. Nobody is being punished. (At least in a healthy family). It's all about the reward.

So I am pretty sure, as Christians predictably lament every year, that Christmas actually has nothing whatsoever to do with Christ, other than that it happens to be a convenient time of the year to celebrate it. St. Nicholas isn't Jesus, after all, even if he was Christian. He was just a guy.

Christmas is all about the gifts. And what does this have to do with Shabbat? Well, that's what Shabbat is all about. Jewish people aren't lucky because they get eight days of Hanukkah. They're lucky because they get Shabbat every week. Well, okay, they're just lucky. But Shabbat is like a huge gift from God, every single week. Every day on a Saturday, you can wake up, and know that God pretty much loves you, and heaps thousands of inordinately wonderful gifts upon you every singe day of your life, for no particular reason other than the fact that you are alive. And it doesn't matter, actually, if you ever done anything "bad" in your life, because He doesn't really care. He wants you to try to be good, and to do good. But mostly He just wants to give you lots of presents and make you happy so he can see that little smile on your face. Because that's His reward. That's all you have to do to make God happy. Smile and be happy with the gifts you are given, because you know now that you are unconditionally loved.

"Their Religion"

So I think maybe I should try not to hang out with Christians. It's not that I don't like them, and I don't plan to actively avoid anybody just on that basis. But I am feeling less and less like we have anything in common. And the problem with hanging out with Christian people is that they like to know you believe in Jesus Christ and that means you have common ground and you can have a conversation, and without that, conversation just gets awkward.

For example, last evening. I went to a friend's house for a poker party. It was a friend from the choir I used to sing at in San Francisco. That is, before I spoke to the choirmaster and eventually sent him an email saying I didn't think it was a good idea, since I was working on becoming Jewish.

I like them all as people. But it was still awkward going to the party. For one thing, one guy, in the car on the way there, kept pointing out all the church buildings as we passed them, and commented on them in one way or another. And I discovered that, for myself, I didn't really care. I didn't care what kind of church it was, or how long it had been there, or whether so-and-so had gone inside it or not. It just meant nothing to me. It was a building: a building I had no desire or obligation to go into. It was a good feeling. But rather than say anything, I just let the guy talk.

When we got to the party, we had a good time, and there was really no mention of religion. The host asked if I would consider joining the choir again, and I said probably not, or at least not right away. But I have a feeling the issue, unstated, was the big pink elephant in the room, because I asked the guys in the car on the way back what the choirmaster had said about me and the fact that I wasn't going to be singing this fall.

"Oh, he said you weren't singing because you were going to be Jewish."

And that's when the discussion started. The guy (the same one who had been pointing out all the churches) began talking about how he had many friends who were Jewish, and how he loved "Their religion." He also said that they, for some reason he couldn't understand, always wanted him around whenever somebody died. But I pointed out, of course, that Judaism is and was, of course, the basis for Christianity, all subsequent additions and changes aside. But I didn't really talk about the vast and innumerable differences. He was eager to tell me how much he loves the Old Testament.

"But aren't they going to ask you to renounce Jesus?" He asked me. And he told me a story about how one of his female friends was going to get married to a Jewish guy, and she was supposed to convert, but when she got to the end of the process and they asked her to renounce Jesus, she just couldn't do it. And he said he'd be all about being Jewish, except for the whole giving up Jesus thing. I didn't have the heart to tell him I'd never accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior in the first place.

That is because I don't believe it's true, and all my efforts to be Christian have ultimately failed, in my view, based on the simple fact that, in my heart of hearts, I don't and cannot get myself to believe that Jesus is God. I mean, I'm sorry, I just don't. So therefore, being Jewish is just honest to me. It doesn't mean that I'm changing anything, aside from outward appearances, but it does mean I can outwardly say, this is who I am and what I believe, and my outward expression agrees with my inward belief, and not the opposite, which is what has been the case for about as long as I can remember.

So that's why I believe "conversion" is an inept and inaccurate term for what I am actually doing, at least in terms of my own life, if no one else's. Because, as I had to explain to my friends in the car, converting to Judaism isn't the same as or even the opposite of converting to Christianity. Converting to Christianity is easy. You say you'll accept Christ and worship him for the rest of your life, and you're good. If you want to convert to Judaism, it's a whole different story. You can't just renounce Christ and then suddenly you're Jewish. It doesn't work that way. But it's hard to explain to someone who doesn't know. Which is a lot of people. Both Christian and Jewish. Even a friend of mine who is half Jewish didn't know. So I told her. I didn't know myself, until I started looking. But I'm glad I did. I am glad I am doing this. I am enjoying every minute, every challenge, and I don't ever want to take it back.

Shabbat Shalom

I went to the most wonderful Shabbat services to day. And I am going to write about them now, because it is Shabbat, and I am going to honor the experience as immediately as I can, even though, technically, I guess you are not supposed to do writing on Shabbat, but in my view, this is all part of my way of keeping it holy.

My friend Raphael and I had been to this temple once before, for the Friday evening Kabbalat service. And it was nothing like the celebratory Kabbalat I was used to going to at Chochmat, which was basically all I knew about Friday night services, except for the Rosh Hashanah service I'd been to one with my ex-fiancé. If anything, it was a bit like church, especially with the stained glass windows they had on either side of the chapel. And up until this morning, I had never been to a Saturday morning service. In fact, up until this year, I had no idea there were such things. I only knew about Friday night Shabbat. But anyway, so we met this morning at this Conservative temple in town. Or in the city, rather. It's a little bit out of the way.

I slept in, quite egregiously, which I almost never do. But I got ready in record time, I called him, and he was fine. I managed to get there fully an hour and 20 minutes after the time I had expected to arrive, but I also wasn't the only one coming in late, and I was just in time for the beginning of the reading of the Torah.

It also happened to be a Bar Mitzvah. I really couldn't have planned it better. Because I had never actually seen a real Bar Mitzvah. And that is, of course, exactly what I want to do some time, even though I'll be a little bit older than the usual Middle School candidate. But I don't care. It's something I am looking forward to, after I go through this process of converting (or whatever it is - I'm not really changing into anything different than I already am. But anyway.) So we were blessed to be able to witness the event. And I was so touched to hear the way the parents spoke to their son with such reverence and gratitude. With such recognition for his real talents and abilities. Honoring him for who he was and is, and thanking him for being a presence in their lives. And I swear I will never forget the glowing look of pride on his face. It was not a puffed up sense of self. But a real and honest sense of self-worth that only comes through true recognition, love, and support.

It's something I never had in my life. But something I hope to be able to give some day to my own children. But that's another story.

I also was surprised to look down at the bottom of the program and see "candy." Candy? I looked at my friend. "We throw it at the Bar Mitzvah boy at the end." He smiled. I thought, this is great. During the reading, the Rabbi acknowledged a couple who was about to be married under the Chuppah tomorrow. I looked at them. They seemed young. Probably in their very early twenties. I felt glad. I felt comforted. Not everybody breaks things off before reaching the end. Some people really do strive to hold on and make things work, instead of giving up. That's worth celebrating. It's an end and it's a beginning. I'll drink to that.

After the service, there was an extra big spread for the Kiddush, because of the Bar Mitzvah. I was hungry. I went straight for the lox. I've never been much of a lox fan, but, as I told my friend at the table, maybe there is something about reading and studying Torah that induces a strange appetite for raw smoked salmon and cream cheese on a bagel. I must say it's delightful with capers. Or maybe I was just hungry. But either way, it hit the spot. It hit my J-spot. And I was happy. Can't say anything bad about the triple-layer chocolate thing, either.

So that was my first Saturday morning Torah service. I have to say I loved it. I truly and thoroughly enjoyed it. And even though I didn't know what was going on half the time, I felt so totally comfortable, I didn't even mind. I just followed along, like I always did in Church. But the difference here was that at least I could believe what I was saying. And I drank up the Hebrew, and the atmosphere; the smiles, the dancing, the celebration. The true Joy of Life and recognition of other. The father who clasped his prayer shawl over his daughter for one special moment. The babies climbing up the stairs and toddling up the aisles. The gentleman who went over and kissed the old woman on the forehead, greeting her and clasping her hand. It is these moments of personality and human interaction that make it real and human and ultimately Jewish to me. It's like reading the Human Torah. There are no words. There is no way to describe. There is only a way to do and to be. It's how you are. It's people. But it's so forgotten on the outside, sometimes. But that being and becoming of what we are is what is passed down from generation to generation, just as those scrolls are handed from Grandfather to Father to Son. From Mothers to Daughters and their daughters.

I am proud to be entering into this space. I am honored to be able to join such a community that honors each and every one if its members with honesty, grit, and humor. It makes me feel lucky. But it's not only for me. And I know I am not doing it alone.

The Locksmith

I like how good things come out of bad things. Is that too Pollyanna of me? Is that too Silver Lining? But I think it's true. It happens all the time. It's doesn't make the bad less bad. But I do think the bad makes the good more good.

For example, I had to call a locksmith in because I was having trouble with my landlady, and I needed to lock my door. So I got her to give me a padlock for my bedroom door in the house. She gave me a cheap lock, which I meant to replace. But the door jamb is an odd size, and I couldn't get my big Master lock to go in, so I just used hers. But on Tuesday, I walked out to the store to get my copy of Jewish Literacy by Joseph Telushkin, and when I returned, my lock wasn't working. Try as I might, the key wouldn't open it. So I got out the screwdriver, took off the metal plate, and called the locksmith.

I called the first number I saw, which is not always a good idea. I had doubts about the company, based on the incompetency of the receptionist, and the fact that she sounded like she wasn't working for a locksmith company, but rather a telephone call center in Ohio. But I went with it anyway. I didn't even ask for the rates because I planned to have them bill my landlady.

When the guy showed up, he was driving a bright yellow car, the size of something you might see in Europe. He got out and immediately started opening doors, walking around. I wasn't sure what he was doing. He got out a blue plastic toolbox. A large tangle of extension cord. He managed to keep the cardboard boxes from falling out of the back seat. He walked around the other side, leaving the car keys in the passenger side door, and asked me if I could hand them to him. I looked at the Enterprise key chain and thought this all seemed a little strange. "Look, I'm not sure about this," I told him. "What? You don't trust me? What's the matter?"

"I'm just not comfortable. I don't think this is a good idea."

My landlady was watering her garden.

"Well, I have to at least charge you for the visit."

I thought about it. I didn't have to pay them. They couldn't make me. But I'd have to call a whole other locksmith. I'd have to wait for hours maybe. They might not come today. "Fine." I said. "Come inside, I'll show you my door." But first he had to put the grinder away. All you need is a big pair of clippers, I told him. Trust me.

Upstairs, we inspected the lock. I apologized for the mess in the room. I hadn't cleaned it in days. I had clothes, books, my water bottle on the floor. Normally, I can't stand a mess.

He says he'll have to charge me $90 for the visit, and $20 to cut the lock. I tell him that's ridiculous, I can't pay. They'll have to charge my landlady. They can send her the bill. They don't send bills, he tells me. This is very unusual. Maybe this is a West Coast thing. Or maybe it's sketchy, as I presumed. What kind of company doesn't send bills? He says I need to pay up front.

So we are arguing over this. He says he'd like to help me, because I'm Jewish and he's Jewish. I touch the Star of David around my neck. He has dark hair, dark eyes. A strange accent. I am aware of my Mezuzah. And my Tanakh there by my bed. My "Living a Jewish life." All in plain view. I guess I am Jewish. Or at least I have the trappings of Jewishness. I have the Things of Jewish around me, and I'm saying who I am, or who I feel like, without even realizing it.

And here he is, a random guy who does house calls for a locksmith company, who comes to my house and wants to help me because I am Jewish and I have a crazy landlady, but he doesn't want to lose his job. So I agree to pay him. He cuts the lock for free, and I hand him the $90. I give him the lock as well. And I thank him.

He says his name is Roy. I don't know what his real name is, but he's from Israel. That explains his accent. He doesn't know that I'm not really Jewish, but it doesn't matter. I am Jewish to him, and that's as Jewish as I need to be.

He said he wanted to keep my number. I said no, thank you, although he seemed very sweet. I just don't think that's why he was there for me. But Hashem sends people to each other for all kinds of reasons. It's not always romance or matchmaking. He sent me a crazy landlady, who sent me a padlock, who sent me to call the locksmith, who sent this Jew from Israel, who wanted to help me. He cared about me. Because I was Jewish. And what does that mean? It means we're part of a community. The Land of Israel came to my door. It recognized me. And that means something.

To him, what does it mean? It means he leaves the Land of Israel, but he finds a Jewish giyoret with a Mezuzah and a Star of David on her neck, who needs her padlock broken, to protect her from an intrusive landlady, who threatened him on the way out. But I protected him. I stood up for him. Because I wasn't going to let anything happen to him, either. We are family. We are everywhere. We are all the Land of Israel.

Tisha B'Av

For me, maybe just this year, I am finding the holidays to be personally meaningful. Like Shavuot. It was the perfect first Holiday for me as a quasi-almost-maybe-studying-for-wannabe Jew. First I count the Omer, then come to find out that the central reading for the Holiday is the Book of Ruth, which turns out to be about a woman who chooses Judaism because, like me, the rest of her life that she had known before had pretty much tanked. And, as it would happen, my first Christian Godmother (in her good memory) was named Ruth.

Now we have Tisha B'Av. And, like Shavuot, I can draw a parallel from the destruction of the Jewish Temple to my own life. If what I knew before - a starry-eyed, ambitious, young woman, engaged to a Jewish man and all seemed hunky dory - was no longer there, what was I who was I? Who am I now, and who am I going to be after all of this. And is it the case, too, that somehow, through all of this, I am preserved, even though I may feel that all my honor, dignity, and sense of self have been stripped away? What if, all the while, I am myself nonetheless?

But now I have no barriers. Now I have no illusions. Now I have no house of cards. So what I have is real. And I feel it.

I think it is the same with the destruction of the Temple, and all the other things. Of course we mourn that our old ways of life are gone. They were nice. We liked it. It was comforting. Now we have to go out and do our own thing. We have to reinvent ourselves. Find a new way of identifying. Find a new way to feel at home, when in fact we feel that we have no home. We are wanderers. We go everywhere, but nowhere do we really belong, except in communion, except in cohesion, except in knowing that all of Life is One, and all of us share in the pain. The pain that makes us real. The pain that makes us honest. The pain that makes us try harder, to be ourselves, to move forward.

Little Things

Someone told me something once. He was moving out. That's because he and his girlfriend had been living in the same small room, paying rent for just one person, and when he had moved in, he had said it was just him and she was going to be living somewhere else. With her parents, they said. So after a while, the third (or fourth) roommate and I asked if she would kindly help pay for the utilities. We would split it four ways. She declined in the form of a long email detailing why she should not be required to pay $40 for utilities because it was unfair, due to the fact that she was just out of High School, was only working part-time, and her mother made her pay rent to store things at her house. She tried to leave without paying. I confronted her, and she screamed at me, calling me names. But her mom was there, and she handed me $40 for the utilities.

The point is, the guy told me, when he was moving out, that he didn't feel good about living with me anyway. I asked why. He said because of "a lot of little things."

And that's the way it always is, isn't it? Things don't break off because of one big thing, usually. Sometimes they do. It makes for a more dramatic plot. But usually it's the little things that add up, and create the whole situation. And those little things can be good or bad. That determines the nature of the outcome.

And it occurs to me that that is what the Mitzvoth are. They are little things (and sometimes big things) that we can do or not do, which eventually add up to a life well lived, if we take them to heart. Doing them is not just a commandment, but a choice that we make, and a commitment, to live life always in the best possible way.

Travel Money

Before I embarked on my month-long European voyage, my Rabbi gave me a dollar for travel money. It was to protect me, he explained. Since I had a mission to take this dollar overseas and give it to somebody who needed it, nothing could hurt me on my way. We mused about the exchange rate. “You can add to it, if you want,” he said.

So I tucked the bill away. And I made sure I knew where it was at all times. I thought of it over on the plane. I wondered who would need it.

And finally, I got to France. I thought I would see someone right away that I could give the dollar, or a Euro to. But then I started wondering, what exactly constitutes a “need”? People who are poor obviously need money. But so does everyone else. What if the person in front of me doesn’t have enough change for the bus? Or is short one Euro for their groceries? I could be the person to say, here is a Euro for you, all the way from the States, though I wouldn’t tell them that, and I just happen to be here to give it to you. They would never know why. But not if I carelessly let it drop into a hat, to mingle with the change of so much other, just usual, everyday tzedaka.

Besides, my Rabbi had said, I needed to bring back a story. I wanted a good story. But I didn’t want to hold onto the Euro for too long.

Perhaps three days into the trip, I found him. Rounding a corner, there was a dark-haired, friendly-faced beggar on the steps of a church. S’il vous plait, Madame, s’il vous plait? I was ready. I looked in my change wallet. A two-Euro coin. And two 50-cent pieces. I looked at him. S’il vous plait? He had a dog. I liked him. Perhaps he was a painter. He was fairly young. Not even gray. I wanted to give him the 2 Euros. But I considered the exchange rate and my measly budget. I could add to it, he had said. But at my expense? Should I add that much? I took the two 50-cent pieces and dropped them into his hat. “Merci,” He said. And I walked away.

But I felt guilty. I felt cheap. That 2-Euro piece now seemed heavy in my wallet. I should have given it to him. I thought. I was holding back. I was afraid. I wasn’t living passionately. I considered the cost too much and not the ultimate return, which would be another whole Euro for him, and a great deal more satisfaction in a mission well accomplished for me.

And so I decided he would not be the only one. I was not going to throw Euros around randomly everywhere, but I would place a Euro here, a Euro there, as I felt was needed. I could fill a lot of needs. Not just one.

And so I did. But the Euro came back to me. One day, in an Internet café, I sat down to find a one-Euro piece just sitting there, on the counter. I looked around. There was no one. The man at the bar was watching sports. Who knows why it was left there, but there it was. And maybe it was stealing, but I decided it was travel money, to give to someone else. After all, I was going to Germany in a week.

So the Euro came with me, in the bottom of my bag, so that I wouldn’t spend it accidentally. And I kept it with me all through my visit with my German family. We saw the emigration museum, and they served me lots of pork, which I tried not to eat. At the end, I left the Euro at their house. But even though I was running low on travel money myself, it was OK, because my German grandparents quietly handed me a bag of candy and an envelope filled with money. I was stunned. Such a generous gift. I didn’t know how to thank them. But I went on my way.

I flew back to Paris for a few days, and then I was to meet the program I traveled with and bring the kids back to the States. Possibly I needed more than a Euro for protection. But I felt safe enough. The night before I left, I went to the cyber café down the street to check some final things. But the Internet was down. The guy didn’t know how to fix it. He apologized, said there was nothing he could do. I was going to have paid a euro for 30 minutes. On my way out, there was a Euro on the counter. But I hadn’t paid yet. “Bonne nuit,” I said. He pushed the Euro toward me. “Merci,” I said, and took it.

Back in the states, I managed to get the kids home. Then I got myself on a bus up to Boston, where I was staying with a friend. I arrived at 10:00 at night. It was raining. I was tired. I decided to take a taxi. When we got to the place, and I went to pay the fare, I looked in my wallet. I had $6, or a $20 bill. The fare was $5.85. I looked in my change purse. I wanted to give a tip. “I only have European coins,” I said. “You’re the boss,” he told me, and stood waiting. I thought about it. I didn’t want to break the 20. I knew what to do. I handed him the 5 and the 1. But then I said, “Here, have a Euro. Take it.” The one-Euro coin flashed in the streetlight. He smiled, evidently pleased. “Thank you,” he beamed. You’re welcome.

I wished him a good night, and he drove down the street.

I was home.